Every book about biology would tell me my chest
is made of a ribcage, my bones strong
but capable of breaking.
I know that my lungs are what allow me to breathe,
and my feet that make me turn.
But no page from the memory of history would ever tell me
that music is what’ll truly make me hear
to places even my imagination could never think of.
No classroom would ever teach me
that the scent of rain would take you back
to the life of a person you could have had,
nor will a high score on a test
ever make me see the blood and the sweat
on every brushstroke of a painting.
My lungs would never run out of steam
without love to make it,
the same way my feet would never tiptoe to the stars
without prose and poetry and insanity
whispering in my head.
I am not just skin and a tangle of veins
passing for less than a millennia,
I am also fire and the eye of a storm,
the ruin of a city and the sail of a sunken ship,
I am the sound of a word in a tongue
that will exist when I am